It could be worse for Sylva Lark.
She could be dead. A coma was nothing to that. Or her family moving across
country for the treatment, leaving her with a big blue mark on her back.

She can handle it.

Mostly.

Except the mark glows and
tingles, especially whenever transition helper Atticus Plot (Attic) is close
by. She suspects he’s hiding something, and when she stumbles across a torn
body bearing the same spiral marking as her own, that suspicion is confirmed.

After a few shaves with death,
the truth finally comes out and the battles begin.

But not all her fights are
external; her biggest one is the decision she has to make between doing the
right thing for the world and giving up her beloved family for good.

DAYTIME
TELEVISION SOAPS are funny. Brain transplants, lovers that turn out to be
related, and characters that slip into comas. Yeah, I'd thought soaps pretty
darn hilarious until the day I woke up from a coma.

And into this
drama. I bit my bottom lip and looked at the doctor (Albelin, as he’d
introduced himself seconds ago). Although Albelin stood next to the bed, his
voice echoed like he was at the other end of a tunnel. “. . . coma . . . much
sooner than anticipated.”

Goose bumps
dotted my skin and I tucked the hospital sheet—the only thing covering my body
save a pair of ungenerous undies that were giving me a wedgie—tightly under my
arms.

My thoughts
spiraled. I strained to recall how I’d arrived here in the first place, but I
couldn't remember much. There had been a flash of color, and then—blank.

Albelin's curly
black hair swished as he moved his gaze away from me and toward his vibrating
pocket. Something on the side of his neck caught my attention. A black tattoo,
like the wing of an eagle. But it disappeared behind his collar as he pulled
out his phone. He scanned the screen, and then stuffed the phone back into his
pocket. “Your family is on their way,” he said.

My family. Faces
and partial memories popped up like a black-and-white film, with someone slowly
winding the crank. A blonde woman unraveling a kite—Mom. A man in a police
uniform—Dad. And a boy building a Lego tower—Jeffrey.

“Right.” The
word felt hollow and scratched the inside of my throat. Using the corner of the
sheet to cover my mouth, I coughed. It hurt my chest and sounded wet.

With watery
eyes, I scanned the room. I’d been so stuck on the word coma, I’d failed to
notice my basic surroundings. My coughing came to an abrupt stop, but my
thoughts continued to gallop. It wasn’t as though I knew what coming out of a
coma should feel like, but I had an idea what it should look like. Where was
the respirator? The drip? Heart monitor? In fact, the only features of the room
that indicated hospital were the green walls and linoleum flooring.

Albelin must
have read my panicky expression as I’d surveyed the room, because he started to
explain, “We used a new method involving electro-magnetism to bring you back to
consciousness. That’s why you aren’t wearing anything and why you shouldn’t
have any issues with muscle deterioration. That, and we’ve given you protein
supplements.”

Electro-magnetism?
That sounded like something I’d hear in a physics class. My stomach flipped and
I swallowed the awkward laugh that rose to my throat and caused a gurgling
sound. This wasn’t just some run-of-the-mill hospital at all. Maybe it was
experimental, maybe there'd been no other option. Oh, God, what happened to me?

I craned my neck
from side to side. My muscles were stiff, but at least I was conscious. I let
out a shuddering breath and blinked back the water pooling in my eyes. I didn't
care that I was seventeen and supposed act big and brave and something close to
an adult. Right now all I wanted was my mom.

Albelin smiled,
barely crinkling the skin at the sides of his eyes, but his smile didn't soothe
the erratic butterflies in my belly. If anything, it made them worse; he was so
young to be a doctor. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.

Reaching under
the bed, he pulled out a duffel bag and handed it to me. My duffel bag. The one
I took to gymnastics trainings. “Here are some clothes for you to change into.”

I twisted the
familiar canvas handles around my palm.

“Showers aren’t
far,” he added, “just out those doors, second on the left. Towel’s in the bag.
Let me help you there.”

Holding the
sheet, I stood up. My legs felt like jelly, but I shook my head at Albelin’s
offer. “I think I can manage.” I wobbled my way toward the swing doors.

Albelin raced to
my side. “I insist on helping you.”

He attempted to
brace my elbow, but I pulled away. “Thanks, but—but—” I needed alone time. To
think. And I didn’t want anyone touching me while I was wearing practically
nothing but a sheet. "I'll be fine, really. I'll yell if I need
help."

As soon as I was
in the hall, I rested one hand against the wall and used it as a crutch. I was
doing all right considering I’d not used my legs in weeks.

Light filtered
through the windows, imprinting squares on the opposite wall. I pressed my hand
in the center of one as I looked outside onto the street. Mom, Dad and Jeffrey
would be coming soon.

I jumped,
dropping the duffel bag when a flash of black whizzed by. A tall guy wearing a
green T-shirt and tight black gloves up to his elbows was striding down the
hall. I lunged to grab the bag, but my foot caught in the sheet, ripping it
from under my arms. My head jerked up as the scratchy cotton sunk to my feet
and I chased after it.

He glanced back,
sweeping his hair to the side. With a chuckle, Gloved Guy passed by and pushed
through the swinging doors of my room. As soon as he was behind them, Albelin
greeted him. It sounded like they knew each other well. I reached to pick up
the duffel bag and stopped.

SOMETHING
WATCHED ME. I sensed its sadistic presence. Tingles of anticipation snaked from
the nape of my neck down my spine.

With one hand
pressed firmly on my rickety, white-picket side gate, I glanced over my
shoulder.

The tree-lined
street stared back at me. Snow-dusted branches accentuated the silky navy sky,
and meager yellow light leaked from the lampposts.

I strained to
hear the telltale crunching of snow. Nothing. Breathing in, I sought the sour
smell of evil in the breeze or the tinny smell of blood—a scent I’d become
familiar with in the last few months.

Again, nothing.

Just a sharp
cold that promised winter would linger this year.

My shoulders
sagged in relief. I wasn’t supposed to be out alone—I promised Albelin I’d
always take another Guardian with me if I left the motel premises. Perhaps my
guilty conscience was responsible for this strange sensation of evil.

I hadn’t wanted
to disobey him. Not really.

I clutched the
gate, its splintered edges digging into my palms, and studied the house in
front of me.

Steadying my
breath, I opened the latch and pushed through to the path. Frosty stalks of
lavender brushed the back of my hand in a light, swirling breeze as I took in
the large acorn tree. Beyond it, the luminescent windows radiated warmth and
beckoned me home.

No, I didn’t
want to disobey Albelin.

I needed to.

Like every week,
I crept to the side of the house and peered into the living room. Slouched on
the couch watching TV, Mom sat with her head resting on Dad’s shoulder, and Mottle
was tucked into the small space between them. My brother Jeffrey wasn’t in the
room—but it was near midnight, so he probably lay tucked up in bed.

Dad kissed the
top of Mom’s head and her lips moved. Love you too, honey.

I wondered if
Dad heard Mom’s whispered words. It seemed cruel that I could hear the words
meant for him when I wanted them to be meant for me.

But they
couldn’t ever be for me anymore. Not since I’d chosen to give them up to become
an angel-protecting, demon-killing Guardian.

My stomach
roiled and I stifled a cry.

I slunk back
into the shadows, waiting for the warm weight of darkness to smother me into
numbness again. It worked the last three months.

Digging each
jagged fingernail into my sweaty palms, I counted down from ten. I looked
forward to replacing the frustration and hurt with dull throbbing. But at
“one,” nothing changed. I backed up harder against the corrugated fencing
behind me, the cold seeping through my shirt.

Dad’s head
jerked back in laughter that verged on maniacal. It used to make me laugh,
too—at Dad. But now it made me want to bang on the windowpane until it
shattered, and with it the thick wall of memories they couldn’t see between us.

I twisted the
ring on my little finger, hoping the comforting tic would help me.

It stopped me
from yelling out, but it didn’t curb the tears. Sizable drops splashed onto my
hand as I wiped a sniffle from my nose.

I instantly
forgot about the tears as a ripping pain sliced down my forearm. Blood seeped
through my light-blue sleeve. I whistled in a breath as I clutched the cut.
Usually, I relied on the semi-regular cuts and stabbing burns to snap me to a
keen sense of reality, but now the pain inside me did the job well enough.

Mottle jumped
off the couch and trotted to the window. She pawed at the glass and meowed.

I sighed. At
least Mots remembered me. Her gray fur pressed up against the window as if
begging me to pat her. She butted her head, rattling the glass, and I suddenly
couldn’t bear her leaving me alone.

She was one
member of my family I could still have.

“I’m coming to
get you,” I whispered.

As if she
understood me, she leaped off the sill and padded out of the living room.

I moved with
purpose to the front of the house, my feet lightly treading the leaf-covered
path. I searched the potted-plants for a spare key. Surely there’d be one here
somewhere. . . .

First pot.
Second.

Dammit!

Where could they
have hidden it? Or had they moved it after Dad worked the Guardian homicide
cases a few months ago? Flashes of torn Guardian bodies flickered in my mind,
eliciting waves of goose bumps over my skin.

For a small
city, Foxtin’s high death rate . . . I shuddered. Demons—Keres and
Arae—slaughtered us Guardians as if they drew hot knives through butter. I saw
it.

I also saw them
turn my friend Marcus and ex-boyfriend Jason part-demon.

Saw them kill
Maddy, my best friend. . . .

~*~*~

About
the Author:

A born and raised New Zealander,
Anyta Sunday has been exploring the literary world since she started reading
Roald Dahl as a kid. Inspired, stories have been piling up in her head ever
since. Fast forward to her mid-twenties and jump a few countries (Germany,
America, and back again), and she started putting pen to paper. When she’s not
writing or chasing her kid around, she’s reading, hiking, watching a Joss
Whedon series, attempting pilates, or curling up with her two cats. Updates on
her projects can be found at anytasunday.com.